


A Heart's Battle

by dreyrugr



Series: Tony Stark Appreciation [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (sometimes), Crack Treated Seriously, Deaf Clint Barton, Everyone Is Alive, Everyone Wants to Get into Tony's Pants, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Guess the True Pairing!, Gushing Fangirl Peter Parker, Happy Tony Project, Hurt Tony, Jealous Bucky Barnes, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Or More Like, Or that's what it looks like to Bucky at least LOL, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Outsider, Poor Tony, Possessive Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers 4, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Avengers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sick Tony, Sort Of, Team as Family, The UST Staring Contest, Tony Butt Appreciation, Tony Stark Appreciation, Traumatized Scott Lang, Traumatized Tony Stark, between Loki and Tony LOL, traumatized Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreyrugr/pseuds/dreyrugr
Summary: A.K.A. The everyone wants Tony fic.Alternatively,Bucky keeps running into scenarios where various people - including the King of Wakanda and even his best friend - seem to want nothing more than to woo Tony Stark into their beds, for either forever or a wild night.It's really a whole bunch of misunderstandings, Tony tries to argue. Until they're not.





	1. T'Challa (and Steve)

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just a shameless excuse to write Tony/Everyone. Originally, it stemmed from a Victor von Doom/Tony Stark thing I had going on for a while lately (I blame 616 verse). And then it expounded to this.
> 
>  
> 
> _I regret nothing._
> 
>  
> 
> This is for you, Tony Stark. Happy Birthday, my dearest hero.

 

At the end of the Infinity War, as social media and news outlets have come to call it, the Avengers―and by Avengers, Bucky means _Stark_ ―were to host a ‘Yay, we won!’ party, as the aforementioned man himself called it.

 

It makes Steve smile, all goofy and sweet at the edges, with something eerily close to adoration. “Okay, Tony,” he says, easily, as if anything and everything Stark says or does is, hands-down, the greatest idea ever.

 

Steve’s agreement is almost immediately echoed by T’Challa. “Wakanda will be glad to host our victory,” he interrupts, his voice lilting, regal, in that familiar way Bucky has grown used to. He is watching Stark, eyes intent on the shorter man, as if cataloguing carefully any and every response. It is the sort of intent Bucky knows T’Challa uses to focus on battle strategies―and, for that, it appeals to Bucky as odd for T’Challa to render so much attention to a man like Tony Stark.

 

Stark falters, apparently momentarily thrown by the gesture. “Um, if Your Highness insists.”

 

“I am afraid I must,” T’Challa replies with a teasing grin. “And, at that behest, I must also request you allow me the honor of calling you by your prefered name, if you would allow the familiarity of calling me not by my title but by the name my father bestowed upon me.”

 

Sometimes, in the safeties of his own mind, Bucky thinks the Wakandan royals talk a little insane.

 

Stark is mouthing the word ‘ _behest,_ ’ but, with the kind of crowd that hung around, Bucky is sure the man is used to it by now. “T’Challa, then,” he says, with a smile that could be called _soft,_ and it is in that moment that Bucky finally understands what exactly it means to be in the presence of the Stark Charm, “call me Tony.”

 

T’Challa’s smile reflects Stark’s own. Bucky really should have expected what happens next: T’Challa sidles up to Stark’s side, offering the latter an elbow.

 

With a sort of easy familiarity and confidence that Bucky can admire in a guy, Stark accepts the offer, folding a hand around the inside of T’Challa’s arm. “Where to, my liege?” There is a sort of beauty there, watching those two―a symmetry of regality and gracefulness, both honed by life-long roles.

 

From the corner of his eye, Bucky notices a muscle in Steve’s jaw twitch.

 

“There is someone who has been eagerly waiting to meet your acquaintance, Tony―and, perhaps, you will enjoy her presence as much as I don’t.”

 

That startles a laugh out of Stark. “Is this some sort of relative that you hate to love?”

 

Bucky waits until the trail end of T’Challa’s reply fades to the wind before turning to his best friend with a raised, very judgemental eyebrow. “Possessive much, punk?”

 

“Shut up, Buck,” Steve hisses back. There were Dora milling about still.

 

Bucky snorts. He doesn’t much care about Doras being nosy shits, unlike a certain Black Widow. “Jealousy ain’t a good colour on ya, Stevie. Also, what the fuck are you gonna do against the King of the most powerful country in the world? Challenge him for Stark’s hand in combat?”

 

There is a sudden gleam in Steve’s eye.

 

“Steve, _no_ ―”

 


	2. Peter Quill (and Gamora)

 

It isn’t just T’Challa who is vying for Stark’s favour, apparently―one of the guys from space―Star Lord or Quill or whatever his name was―is also making clumsy, yet very direct, attempts to flirt with Stark.

 

Bucky is unfortunate enough to be eating on the next table over, close enough to both hear and see the whole shitshow.

 

_ “So,” _ the man starts, “guess we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Quill, but people call me Star Lord.”

 

Stark―or, well, Tony, by now, Bucky supposes, after that emotional talk they had that Bucky is very much not eager to repeat―halts in the middle of shoving a piece of Nutella-covered waffle into his mouth. “Hi,” he says, in a tone Bucky has come to know means he is mildly annoyed but willingly tolerant, “Tony Stark.”

 

“Not Iron Man?” Quill says, smiling a cheeky grin like he knows the answer to his own question. He slides, uninvited, into the lone chair across Tony.

 

Tony, smart man that he is, must notice where this is going, too, but is willing to let the conversion go on. He drops his fork, still speared with a bit of food, back onto the side of his half-full plate. His hands rest there on the table, perfect and graceful, waiting out Quill’s endeavour. “Only in battle or when I do something particularly awesome and/or nerve-inducing.”

 

“You build that armor yourself?”

 

And, yeah, okay, Bucky can commend Quill’s angle―one sure way to Tony’s heart is through his technology.

 

“Sure did, buddy.”

 

_ Or maybe not _ , Bucky realizes with an internal, sympathetic cringe towards Quill. Tony does look more prone to fall asleep than to indulge in some guy’s off-beat attempt at a pick-up.

 

“Cool.” Quill grins, easy and sure. “Wanna fuck?”

 

Bucky, who was taking a sip from his drink so as to not appear as if he were eavesdropping, promptly does a spit-take. Okay,  _ clearly _ , Bucky has underestimated how direct the guy is.

 

Next to him, Scott Lang―apparently also listening in on the conversation―is choking on his own mouthful of orange juice.

 

Tony frowns. “Uh, excuse me?”

 

Quill is undeterred. “My girlfriend, Gamora―that’s the really hot chick on my team―thinks your ass was made for fucking―well, those aren’t the exact words she used, but you get the idea.”

 

“ _ Oh, my god, _ ” Lang desperately chokes out.

 

“Um,” is all Tony says.

 

“I mean, if you’re not into dudes, that’s totally good, but my girlfriend and I are kinda doing this open relationship thing where we get to fuck other people we find, like,  _ really _ attractive―but only the really, really attractive ones―and we both agreed that you fall into that category, second to that Thor guy, in her opinion, but fuck that douchebag, right?”

 

“ _ Oh, my god, _ ” Lang says again.

 

“I―” Tony regards the man in front of him. “I’m sorry, but are you asking me to a threesome with your girlfriend?”

 

“Is that what you Terrans call it?” Quill says, obviously not catching Tony’s disbelieving, what-the-fuck tone. “Then, yeah, I’m asking you to a threesome where both me and my girlfriend get to do unspeakable things to your ass.”

 

“ _ Holy shit _ ,” Lang breathes. “ _ Oh, my god. _ ”

 

Bucky didn’t think it was possible, but Tony actually  _ blushes _ , his cheeks ruddy and aflammed. “Um,” he replies, grasping at words, “thanks? But I think I have Otherworldly Experience already checked off my bucket list.”

 

Quill is no less disheartened. “Well,” he says, standing from his chair. He raps a knuckle against the metallic surface of the table, “you ever change your mind, come hitch me up. It’d be entirely my pleasure.”

 

“Right,” Tony says, the blush of his cheeks still rather prominent. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”

 

“ _ Holy mother of Jesus _ ,” Lang whispers fervently.

 

Quill takes his leave with a wink and a lazy, two fingered salute.

 

Tony waits until the man is gone from the mess hall before burying his burning face in his hands. “ _ Oh, fuck _ ,” Bucky can hear him mutter. “ _ He’s gonna kill me. _ ”

 

“ _ Oh, my god _ ,” Lang is still saying.

 


	3. Stephen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all of you who were eagerly awaiting for some StrangeIron!
> 
> Thank you for all of the love this has received <3

 

The next time it happens, Bucky really should have been expecting it by then.

 

“I’m looking for Tony Stark,” a voice suddenly says behind him, and Bucky has to control the urge to throw the knife he has been sharpening in reflex. “Have you seen him?”

 

“ _ Fucking hell _ , Strange,” Barton gripes. “Some warning next time? We’re taking weapons’ inventory right now, man.”

 

Strange levels an uninterely unimpressed look Barton’s way. “I’ll send a card next time,” he deadpans. “Where’s Stark?”

 

“He’s down the hall, to your right. He and Thor are having A Talk,” Natasha says, all sorts of implications in her tone―and none of which Bucky can readily interpret. “I wouldn’t interrupt them, if I were you. Thor can get a little... _ much _ .”

 

“I am fully aware of what I am walking into, Agent Romanov,” Strange replies in kind. “But Stark and I have a prior engagement that I tend for him to keep.”

 

Barton scoffs. “What, like a hot date?”

 

“Yes,” Strange says, with a look that can be considered a glare on another man. “A hot date.”

 

For the life of him, Bucky can’t decide whether Strange is being sarcastic―but he has seen the way the man has winked at Tony, flirtatious, especially in the heat of battle or in training simulations where the former does something particularly awing with his magic.

 

Bucky decides it wasn’t sarcasm when he catches Strange and Tony having a candlelit dinner that evening, while the rest of the team is a floor down, enjoying a rare movie night.

 

Tony looks happy, Bucky thinks, laughing into the flute of his champagne. “ _ I can’t believe you just did that! _ ” Bucky hears him say as the elevators are closing up.

 


	4. Gamora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's short, but I hope it satisfies :)

 

“Damn,” Gamora says with feeling, watching with a tilt of the head Tony Stark’s retreating back.

 

Bucky wisely keeps his mouth shut.

 


	5. Thor

 

He knows Tony and Thor have been acquaintances― _friends_ ―for a long while, but it isn’t until now that he finally sees just how _close_ the pair are.

 

“I don’t know how to repay you, my friend,” Thor says with a solemn look. Both Tony and the king are standing before the edge of a cliff, overlooking the oceans of Norway. They stand close, arm to arm as if their shared warmth can dampen the chilly wind of the North.

 

Bucky is standing some yards behind them, but, even from this distance, he can see the way Tony’s lashes dance purple shadows over his cheekbones when he turns to look up at the demigod. His eyes are bright and clear through the violet tint of the unnecessary sunglasses he wears.

 

Tony’s lips quirk into a brief smile before he looks away towards the gentle swirl of the grey ocean. He shrugs a shoulder and replies something, his voice low enough that the wind simply carries it away. Bucky imagines its something self-deprecating―he’s come to know that is Tony Stark’s mode of referendum when others express their gratitude towards him.

 

Thor looks down at Tony, a grin overtaking his face. He tussles at Tony’s hair with a hand and then pulls the man close to his side, trapped under a heavy arm. “Allow me this gratitude,” Thor says, his deep, reverberating voice easily rising over the howl of the wind. “You have given me and my people a new place upon which to rebuild our home―it is more than anyone has done for Asgard in eons.”

 

Bucky steps closer, veering off to the side so as to appear as if he were overlooking the drop into the ocean below rather than blatantly eavesdropping. “And now you’re going all drama queen on me,” he hears Tony reply. “All I did was purchase the damn island off of the Norwegian government.”

 

That, Bucky recalls, and diplomatic immunity mixed messily with refugee status. Hard work born and bred from one too many sleepless nights.

 

He hears the distinct vibration of uru―Bucky turns his head enough to see that Thor has picked up the Stormbreaker and is twirling it about idly in one of his hands. Thor has liberated Tony from his weight―all to press the flat of the ax, like the world’s gentlest poke, against the reactor sitting brightly on Tony’s chest.

 

The blue light refracts against the metallic surface of the ax, spraying a sphere around them with a sparkle of rainbows.

 

“One day,” Thor declares, because Bucky has come to realize nothing of this guy can simply be _said,_ “the world will see your kindness shines brighter than the star you have forged into your heart, Tony Stark.”

 

And then Bucky has to make a double take because―because Thor has literally swept Tony off his feet and bent him backwards over an arm into a heady, passionate kiss.

 

Bucky’s cheeks burn while he desperately looks away. _Ah, fuck, eyebleach._

 

There’s the sound of lips smacking wetly together. Bucky woefully regrets the life decisions that have led him to this point of time.

 

Finally, some moments later, they break away, judging by the desperate breath Tony takes.

 

“ _What_ ―” Tony’s voice sounds broken, croaking at the edges. He tries again, “What was that?”

 

Bucky risks a peek behind him to see Thor is grinning like the cat with the cream. “My gratitude.”

 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tony laments, and, judging by the way his voice sounds muffled, he’s hiding under his hands. “I’ve literally been swept off my feet by a Norse god. What is my life?”

 

Bucky can’t help his curiosity―he turns his head fully to watch the two men.

 

Thor’s grin has drawn into an indulgent smile as he pries away Tony’s hands from his face. “Have I overstepped?” he asks, though he definitely doesn’t sound sorry.

 

The way Tony scowls through his blush―it’s―it’s―good god, for the life of him, Bucky hasn’t seen anything cuter. “Somewhat, yeah?” Tony pouts; there really is no other word for it. “Just―just a hug is fine next time, Big Guy.”

 

Thor’s mouth opens―

 

“And don’t give me that, ‘Oh, look at me, I’m so foreign,’ bullshit thing you like to pull,” Tony knowingly adds.

 

Thor falls into a hearty laugh. “You know me too well, my friend.” He delicately brushes a stray strand of hair from Tony’s face, his eyes mournfully soft. “I find myself unable to hold my affection for you, though I fear I must make you uncomfortable.”

 

Bucky definitely heard Tony kiss back―he sees zero uncomfortableness there.

 

Tony waves a hand in the air, the pink flush of his cheeks threatening to turn red. “Just―just tone it down a little?” There’s a soft _clink_ as Tony taps the surface of the reactor. “The old ticker can’t withstand too much excitement.”

 

Bucky looks away at that, guilt churning in his gut. He knows he and Steve had a hell of a role for Tony’s weakened heart.

 

“Asgard has some healers still left,” Thor says, subdued. “Perhaps, we may be able to offer you some assistance. It is the least we can do.”

 

Tony’s smile is incredibly soft. “Thanks, Point Break. I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Bucky spends the rest of their journey feeling like the world’s most awkward third wheel.

 


	6. Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For guaca_mole, who wanted some Tony & Scott interaction :)

 

“This is a little weïrd…” Scott begins. “But are you dating anyone? Right now?”

 

Bucky, eating breakfast in the kitchen like a normal person during normal hours, rolls his eyes under the guise of the sweep of his hair. Lang’s curiosity has been like this ever since that time with Quill at the canteen some several weeks ago. It’s as if some weïrd sort of Stockholm Syndrome is at play here, where Lang’s trauma has flourished into an unhealthy obsession of Tony’s relationships.

 

“Why,” Tony shoots back distractedly, his vowels dragging. Bucky can only see the fluff of his hair over the back of the couch, but he knows the man has been working with a holotablet since the wee-hours of the night. “You offering?”

 

Scott sputters. “Wh― _ what _ ? Uh, no,  _ god _ , no, Hope would kill me.”

 

_ Oh _ , Bucky snorts to himself,  _ this he has to see _ . Silently, he moves himself and his cereal to an armchair sitting perpendicularly to Tony’s current spot. Neither notice―nor care about―his movement.

 

Tony has yet to change out of last night’s clothes, Bucky notes. He’s still wearing a suit, though he has lost the vest and his tie somewhere. The white shirt he wears is a stark contrast to the olive of his skin―Bucky’s eyes helplessly travel along the bit of skin showing below Tony’s collarbone and along the gracefulness of Tony’s wrists down to the nimbleness of his fingers.

 

_ You’re staring, _ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Nat reprimands in his head.

 

Tony doesn’t seem to notice the attention, his eyes still drawn to the three-dimensional blueprints he has been working with. He’s distracted enough―stuck enough in his head―that Tony has yet to note, either, how long the silence has passed into awkwardness.

 

Scott is still standing, awkwardly, between Tony and the coffee table. Bucky thinks that there’s no bone left that isn’t awkward in this man’s body when it comes to his stilted interactions with Tony. “Uh, Mister―Tony?” Scott tries again.

 

It sounds too much like the  _ other _ awkward person on this team, and, sure enough, Tony goes, “Yes, Mister Parker?”

 

“I’m―uh―that’s not my name.” He waves a hand that Tony obviously doesn't see. “I’m Scott. Scott Lang. Uh, Ant-Man?” Tony has yet to look up. “We’re on the same team? The Avengers?”

 

Tony’s eyes briefly flick up, through his lashes, to peer up at Scott. His hands, fluidly dancing across the hologram, don’t so even much as pause. “How may I help you, Mister Lang?” he says, in the tone Bucky knows he uses for his employees and other professional relations.

 

Scott peers up at the ceiling, despairing. “Nevermind,” he mutters. He points at the space to Tony’s left. “Is this seat taken?”

 

Clearly, Bucky wants to say, it’s not.

 

Tony only gestures with a flick of the hand. He’s fixated on his work still―though, what it could possibly be, Bucky has zilch of an idea.

 

Scott takes the seat. He taps his hands against his thighs, nodding his head while pressing his lips together―he’s the perfect picture for a textbook’s definition of  _ Awkward _ .

 

Bucky snorts quietly into his cereal.  _ Wait for it― _

 

“So, uh,” Scott begins anew. “Motherboards.”

 

Surprisingly, that gets an amused glance. “Close.  _ This” _ ―he zooms out―”is a nanoparticle.”

 

Bucky has no clue what that is, but it must be something significant by the way Scott startles. “Oh, shit,  _ no way _ . I thought that was impossible without Pym particles.”

 

Tony snorts. “Hank  _ wishes _ . This is all programmable nanotechnology.”

 

“Wow,” is all Scott manages to say, his eyebrows closing in on his hairline.

 

And, then, just when Bucky is starting to think the atmosphere will smooth out―

 

Scott turns in his seat, folding a leg under himself. “Are you dating anyone?” he asks again and makes a face like the question is of nothing. “Just curious,” he tacks on.

 

Bucky can tell Tony is trying very hard not to give anything away with his facial expression. “Is this,” Tony starts, his words carefully slow, “some sort of roundabout way of asking me out?”

 

“No!” Scott says, a little too forcefully, in Bucky’s opinion. “No. Just―just curious.” Then, seeming to realize how vehement he was in his refusal, “I mean, not that you’re not, like,  _ super _ attractive or anything―I mean, there’s a reason why you were Sexiest Man Alive for, like, five consecutive years―”

 

Bucky’s mind stutters.  _ Sexiest what now? _

 

“Uh,” Tony says, bewildered. “I was?”

 

Scott stutters to a stop. “I...think?”

 

There’s another awkward, long moment where Scott and Tony simply stare at each other. Bucky wisely keeps his thoughts to himself.

 

Scott is the first to break away. He nods decisively to himself. “Let’s just...forget this ever happened.” He pats his legs and then moves to stand. He waves his hands in the space between him and Tony. “Let’s pretend this was just all a very vivid hallucination.”

 

Tony blinks. “Right,” he says, slowly.

 

Scott slowly inches out of the room. “Nothing ever happened.”

 

“That was weïrd,” Tony mutters as Scott’s hurried steps fade down the hall.

 

Bucky can’t help himself―he laughs even as he spills milk and cereal bits all over.

 


	7. Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Daily updates, she said―my ass.' Yep, I admit it; I am a horrible person who is unable to keep her own timeliness. But, better late than never, I say, so here is this!

 

Bucky didn’t think it was possible for this Everyone Wants Tony thing to get much weïrder, yet here he is, having the privilege of―yet again―being a prime witness to it.

 

Because of an eighteen year old kid.

 

Peter Parker is bright, carefree in a sort of ‘five-year-old with a wild imagination’ way. Nonetheless, he’s weighed down by the weight of the world―or the _universe,_ as the case has come to be―like those in this line of work tend to be. He’s a good kid, Bucky has learned.

 

A good kid with a crush a mile wide for his very own personal mentor.

 

And it freaks the hell out of Bucky.

 

Because Peter Parker has taken too keenly after Tony and has shed all shame and inhibitions.

 

And Tony is absolutely, horridly, _clueless._

 

“Are you doing anything tonight, Tony?” Peter asks, with big, brown eyes that try for innocence but will no longer fool Bucky. Just as he’s dropped the polite, fangirlish ‘Mister Stark,’ Peter has also dropped all semblance of understanding the concept of personal space―he’s practically looming over Tony, boxing the older man in with the way he’s leaning sideways against the table that Tony’s at.

 

There’s nothing suave about the pose―not after Bucky already saw Peter debating out loud, with very awkward demonstrations, how to approach Tony at the breakfast table back in the hallway some time ago.

 

And, Tony, of course, being the touch-starved, lovable idiot that he is, smiles like everything is perfect and dandy. Really, it’s unfair how the simple action makes his big, wide eyes light up like―like _stars_ or something equally cheesy and his olive skin glow as if he’s just been kissed by the Sun, though Bucky knows Tony hasn’t seen the light of day for a while now.

 

“What do you have in mind?” Tony asks, setting down his tablet because Bucky has come to understand that Tony has this notion that Peter deserves all of the attention his own father never gave him.

 

Somedays, Bucky is mighty―horrifyingly, guiltily―glad that he got to punch Howard Stark in the face. Repeatedly.

 

Peter starts to flounder, his looming “suaveness” all for shit, just as Bucky thought. “I―well, I―was wondering if you wanted to go to the movies.” His hands are now wringing the ends of his sleeves, pulling at them over his hands _bashfully,_ for fuck’s sake. “Or something.” He splays a sleeve-covered hand between them. “I mean, if―if you’re not busy.”

 

Tony must finds this _endearing_ , going by the way his smile gentles at the edges into something fucking _sweet._ “I’ve got some time,” he says, though Bucky knows enough of Tony’s schedule to know the man has some private conferences to attend to late in the evening. “If you’re interested,” Tony continues, and Bucky would really, really like for Tony to shut up now before he makes this whole shebang _worse,_ “I know this old-timey place with the outdoor projector screens and the parking lots. I don’t know what they’re showing tonight, but I’ll bet it’s something you probably like.”

 

Bucky wants to slam his head into a desk when Peter goes all wide-eyed and practically _gushing._ “Like in that really old movie _Grease?”_ he enthuses. “I mean, yeah, _yeah_ , that’d be.” Bucky can see the way Peter gulps. “ _Amazing,”_ Peter breathes, staring like a lovesick puppy at Tony’s eyes.

 

It’d be cute, Bucky thinks, if this was still high school and Tony wasn’t _old enough to be Peter’s father, fucking hell._

 

“Like in that really old movie _Grease_ ,” Tony agrees. “You wanna invite some of your friends?”

 

“N-no, that’s okay,” Peter quickly brings down the idea. “They’re busy.” He nods to himself, like his lie is made of solid stuff. “Very busy.”

 

Tony must catch the lie, going by the way his eyes dance with amusement, but all he says is, “Okay, well, if you change your mind―”

 

“No,” Peter interrupts a tad too forcefully, “no, that’s―that’s okay, thank you.”

 

“Okay,” Tony easily agrees. “What time do you want to head out? I know you have your orientation tomorrow early in the morning, which, by the way―” He points at Peter, trying for ‘stern father figure,’ Bucky supposes. “―I’m going with.”

 

Peter’s eyes go all wide again with delighted surprise. “I― _really?_ I know you’re busy―”

 

Tony flaps a hand. “Nope, none of that. I’m going, and that’s final.”

 

Normally, Bucky gripes to himself, any sort of ‘and that’s final’ from a parental figure doesn’t garner so much enthusiasm. It _especially_ doesn’t garner hugging said parental figure so strongly it literally sweeps them off their feet.

 

“ _Ooof,_ woah, okay, Spider-Man, a little easy with the merchandise.” Tony’s feet are dangling off the air several inches, his hands on Peter’s shoulder as the latter smushes the side of his face against the arc reactor in overly enthusiastic happiness.

 

Bucky’s fingers twitch against his thigh.

 

Peter, with obvious reluctance, slowly sets Tony back down. “S-sorry, um―sorry, Tony.”

 

Tony nudges Peter goodnaturedly. “Hey, none of that, either, all right?” He gestures down at himself. “Totally free for the touching.”

 

 _Jesus fucking Christ―_ Bucky imagines there’s some god above that loves to be cruel to him.

 

Peter’s mind seems to stutter with that little titbit, a blush looming at his cheeks even as he grins bright and cheerful at Tony. “Okay, Tony,” he says easily.

 

Tony nods decisively. “Good. Glad that’s settled.” He takes his previously forgotten tablet up from the table and gestures with it towards the elevator. “Wanna blow some shit up meantime?”

 

 _“Yes,”_ Peter eagerly agrees. “Can I, uh, meet you down at the workshop? I promised Aunt May I’d call her when I got here.”

 

Tony smiles. “Sure thing, Spiderling. Say hi for me, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter reiterates absently, very obviously staring at Tony’s lips.

 

Not that Tony seems to notice at all―he’s already walking towards the elevator after throwing a jaunty wave in Bucky’s direction where he’s been sitting casually on the windowsill.

 

Bucky watches him go appreciatively―no one in their right mind would deny that isn’t a wonderful view―and, some feet away, from the corner of his eye, he notes Peter is watching with mirrored intent.

 

He decides then and there that he’s going to crash a little “date” tonight.

 

For Tony’s sake, of course.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so going to hell with this chapter. But, gushingfangirl!Peter has always been a favourite of mine, and I couldn't help myself LOL Obviously, however, this Peter/Tony thing will be purely one-sided because Tony adores Peter too much as his kid to ever think otherwise.
> 
> I am currently accepting any suggestions for Tony-pairings along with any other scenarios anyone would like to see!


	8. Peter and Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited conclusion to the "date!"
> 
> I sincerely apologize for how long this has taken―shout out to @Aly for the greatest words of encouragement:
> 
>  
> 
> _It’s been a month b, drop_
> 
>  
> 
> I have now dropped. Hope this is up to muster!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [PorkGavor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PorkGavor/pseuds/PorkGavor) and [JackalPinesOfHouseEvergreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackalPinesOfHouseEvergreen/pseuds/JackalPinesOfHouseEvergreen), both of whom wanted Bucky to crash Peter's "date." Blame @JackalPinesOfHouseEvergreen for inviting Steve into this plot bunny LOL

 

Somehow,  _ Steve _ ends up finding out about the “date” and promptly decides to crash it as Bucky’s tag-along.

 

Needless to say, Peter was  _ not _ happy. Even now, he keeps shooting glares through the mirror at both Bucky and Steve, both of which are sitting in the back of the car like the third wheels that they very clearly are.

 

Bucky doesn’t give a fuck.

 

What he does give a fuck about is his  _ supposed best friend _ trying to hog up all of Tony’s attention every damn second he can.

 

They’ve been on and off on some mundane conversation about  _ shawarma joints,  _ of all things, debating over the merits of kifta versus falafel as the more obvious filling substitute. Bucky, though he has dabbled in most cuisines over his years, feels like he has entered into a conversation spoken in Old Norse, for all the much that he’s understanding.

 

The craziest part of it all is that Tony isn’t even driving. He had squirmed around his seatbelt until he could hug the back of his seat, his head resting against the side of the headrest. It’d be adorable, Bucky thinks, if it hadn’t freaked the shit out of Steve and Bucky when Tony had initially let go of the steering wheel, much to the amusement of Peter. Apparently, Tony’s cars were self-driving, and Tony did this five times out of ten when he drove Peter places.

 

“Happy says that’s why he’s still Tony’s driver,” Peter had divulged. “Because it gives Miss Potts a heart attack every time he does it.”

 

Tony had merely rolled his eyes. “It’s like she doesn’t know me. I’m not going to  _ crash.” _

 

“That place down on 95th has the best damn pita bread in the history of pita breads,” Tony is gushing. He shifts slightly from his precarious position on his knees, and Bucky can just make out the round curve of his ass through the space between the seats.

 

He’s not the only one appreciating the view, either. Peter’s eyes have been fixed to Tony’s lithe form, his eyes only fleeting to look innocently―his ass; Bucky is onto him―back at Tony’s face when the latter would turn to include the kid into the conversation.

 

Bucky stares at Steve to see if the punk has noticed, but Steve is too besotted with every word falling from Tony’s lips to pay much attention to something else.

 

“The pita is good,” Steve agrees, “but their hummus is down on the low side. Needs more oil, not enough salt.”

 

God, it’s like he’s entered an alternate reality where Steve became some sort of gourmet expert. What the fuck.

 

Tony’s eyes roll. “You and your goddamn hummus, Cap. Baba ganoush is better, and I stand by it till point of death.”

 

“Is that the eggplant thing?” Peter interjects. “I think I had some once, when Aunt May took me to this Naf Naf―”

 

Bucky doesn’t know what the hell could be wrong with whatever a Naf Naf is, yet Tony has gone all riled up and mock-offended. Bucky catches only every other third word from Tony’s rant―he’s more focused on the way Peter, the devious asshole, is trying not to smile at Tony’s antics.

 

“That’s it,” Tony announces heatedly. “We’re making the official team dinner shawarma, and you will feast on the best damn food the Middle East has to offer if it kills me. I will pry you so full of dolmas―”

 

That’s when it clicks for Bucky, another piece of information for his Tonycyclopedia slotting into place. These are Tony’s favourite foods, the palate he loves best, and Steve and Peter have been prying this side of Tony with a tug of words here and there, slowly but surely nudging it loose.

 

Envy curdles in his stomach so heavily he wants to heave.

 

He wants to know all of these nitbits and pieces of Tony, discover the nooks and crannies that make Tony  _ Tony. _ And it furls within him shame that something so basic has already been unearthed by others before him.

 

He realizes, with a pang in his chest, that he yearns to monopolize Tony’s attention―he wants to hoard everything and anything about Tony and place it in a safe bubble with the man himself, where no hurt or harm could ever befall him again. Yet, at the same time, he has this burning need to show off Tony and how mind-boggling  _ breathtaking _ the man is for the whole world to see. But he knows _ ―he knows― _ how deeply selfish and unforgivably controlling any of that could be. 

 

At any rate, he’s not willing to put to the wind Tony’s hard-earned trust, especially with all of the history already between them. 

 

In the end, he figures, he has to settle for watching Tony from afar, as he is wont to do.

 

* * *

 

They arrive at the cinema with no issue, aside from the fact that the tickets guy had recognized Tony and gone on a fangirling frenzy that had lasted a solid two minutes. Bucky feels he’s more amused by the situation than he should be, given how disgruntled and apologetic Tony had looked at Peter.

 

Some minutes before the movie is about to start, Steve offers to go grab the snacks before Tony can so much as put a word otherwise. “I invited myself along,” Bucky is surprised that the punk admits. “It’s the least I could do.”

 

Steve’s standing on the pavement next to Tony’s rolled down window―the hood of the car is down―so Tony has to crane his head up to look at him. Bucky tells himself that he in no way finds that cute. “Steve,” Tony begins, “if this is some sort of misplaced―”

 

“It’s not, I promise,” Steve is quick to interrupt. His gaze hasn’t moved from Tony’s face, just as he has taken to staring intently at Tony whenever the latter’s presence is within a five-mile radius. Bucky has already told him, on multiple, different occasions, how pathetic he finds Steve’s pining, especially since the punk has already expressed his stuttered embarrassment over his inability to do something about it. 

 

“It’s just―it’s  _ Tony,” _ Steve had said.

 

Bucky is beginning to understand what he means.

 

“Want some company, then?” Tony offers.

 

Steve is in the middle of excusing Tony’s presence just as Peter makes a strange, strangled choking sound.

 

Tony’s eyebrows have gone up at the sound. “Or,” he backtracks smoothly, looking with something like amusement at the kid, “apparently, I’m more needed here.” Tony glances his way, conspiratorially, and Bucky suddenly feels himself go hot under his skin. “I swear I won’t let the Winter Soldier eat you, Spiderling.”

 

Peter’s head thunks against the dashboard.  _ “Oh, god,” _ Bucky hears him groan into the leather. It sounds a lot like,  _ Somebody kill me. _

 

The rest of the night doesn’t go much better.

 

For Peter, anyway.

  
  



	9. Logan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because my brain likes to fuck with me on a good day―and at night it likes to spew shit into my dreams that I just have to write. (I blame the Hunt for Wolverine _Adamantium_ series.)
> 
> Here’s to working at reaching the parameters of this fic’s rating.
> 
> I still have no regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [PsychoJordan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychoJordan/pseuds/PsychoJordan), who requested some Logan/Tony action, and for [Dracaenae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracaenae/pseuds/Dracaenae) and [CharmedAngel13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharmedAngel13/pseuds/CharmedAngel13), who seconded and third-ed this prompt respectively.
> 
> And for [Melobski4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melobski4/pseuds/Melobski4), who wanted Tony Butt Appreciation + swimsuit, and for [speedycampos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedycampos/pseuds/speedycampos), who wanted a day at the pool and Tony being his sexy self.
> 
> I seriously cannot thank all of you guys enough for all of the amazing ideas!

 

It’s a freakishly hot summer day―complete with the whole blaring cicadas and the overstuffed continental heat―so it became almost natural that downtime after a joint mission with the X-Men would yield into a pool party the size of which Bucky hasn’t witnessed since he saw the latest cinematic rendition of _The Great Gatsby._

 

He thinks the world is either trying to kill him, or he owes someone a very, _very_ big favour, and Bucky would be willing to pay up with zero questions asked in either case.

 

The Avengers―and, by Avengers, he means Steve―had tried to politely back out of Professor Xavier’s generous offer of taking a vacation of sorts at his fancy mansion-turned-school. The kids he teaches, apparently, had already had a pool party planned, and the Professor felt it would be imperative to show the integration of the different superhero factions as a set precedent.

 

Tony had shared a look with Steve at that, the two co-leaders having some sort of secret communication. “Well,” Tony drawled, the vowels curling smoothly along his tongue, “can’t back out now, Cap.”

 

Bucky was infinitely familiar with the gushy-looking smile Steve threw Tony’s way. “I’ll follow,” Steve retorted easily; “you lead.”

 

The only problem with the Professor’s impromptu plan? None of them were carrying swimwear, and Natasha had flat-out refused to either swim in her mismatched set of bra and panties―her words, not his―or become baked in her tactical gear under the estival New Yorkan heat, a sentiment that was more or less echoed across the rest of the team.

 

“Don’t worry,” Storm said with a saccharine tone, “we’ve got some spare suits in storage.”

 

* * *

 

“How many do we need?” the kid tasked with helping the male portion of the Avengers asks.

 

Tony looks around. Bucky has to hold himself from freezing when their gazes connect briefly. “Uh, nine, since I don’t think we’re counting Vision, and we have a few members missing.”

 

The kid is good at not showing how nervous he is, Bucky notes. “Okay, yeah, I think―” He starts rummaging through one of the storage lockers. “Yep! Here they are.” He comes out with a pile of swimwear packaged in those thin, see-through plastics and lays them out on a ratty-looking metal table off to the side.

 

Clint is the first one to immediately rummage into the pile, spreading the packaged swimwear across the table. “There’s seven trunks and two―why the hell are there speedos?”

 

“There’s a, uh―” the kid stutters. “We, uh, we have a swim team?”

 

“I call dibs on the red trunks!” Scott immediately yells because Bucky is of the opinion that man is actually a child in an adult’s body.

 

“Oh, c’mon,” Sam groans. “Now I’ll have to settle for the white ones.”

 

Clint snorts. “Yeah, whatever.” He takes a set of purple ones and thrusts another in navy at Steve, which causes the latter to raise a questioning eyebrow. “Sorry, Cap, but I’m not in the mood to see all of that Irish pale skin on display today.”

 

Bucky doesn’t even bother to hide his snort at that. “Seconded,” he says and playfully nudges at Steve’s arm.

 

Steve goodnaturedly rolls his eyes. “I’ll remind you you said that next time all of this Irish skin saves your ass, Barton.”

 

“Ooh,” Clint mocks, _“sass.”_

 

Bucky watches Thor try to surreptitiously slide one of the speedos off the table during the ensuing bickering. Thor, Bucky decides then and there, is the farthest thing from stealth as could possibly be.

 

Bruce sighs. “I think I’ve done enough showing off of _my_ skin to last me ten lifetimes,” he announces and takes a set of plain black trunks.

 

“Aw,” Tony says playfully, bumping a hip against the other scientist, “don’t say that, Brucie. You know I’ll always appreciate the view.”

 

Rhodey rolls his eyes as he moves forward towards the gunmetal gray trunks Bucky was eyeing. “Take your appreciative ass and choose something already, Tones, before you’re stuck in speedos,” he grouches. “The world can’t take it.”

 

Tony huffs. “You know what, sourpatch?” he snarks back as he marches forth to take the last speedo with a flair. “Just for that, I’m wearing these. Suffer and burn those eyes out with bleach later.”

 

Bucky takes the remaining orange-neon trunks as everyone begins to file out.

 

He tells himself his flesh is still not burning from that brief moment he had Tony’s attention.

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later, and Bucky is regretting―or patting himself on the back; he hasn’t decided yet―not taking the last speedo when he had the chance.

 

Clint catcalls. “Damn, Stark,” he yells five yards behind Tony, “work it!” It’s the third variation of this Bucky has heard since the locker rooms.

 

Tony barely turns his head around to shoot an unimpressed look Clint’s way over the rim of his cerulean sunglasses. “Fuck off, Barton,” he yells back with the hand gesture to boot.

 

Tony’s on the lean side with a muscle definition born and bread from hard Avenging and a forgetful diet that has most of the team, especially Rhodes, fretting over. He’s all smooth, golden skin―aside from scarred battle wounds and the remains of Afghanistan―with a small waist that flares out slightly at the hips in a shape that could almost be called feminine. And, from what he had briefly glimpsed back in the changing room, there’s not a tan line on that man―Bucky refuses to think about what that means―and not a hair besides.

 

“The undersuit snags, all right?” Tony had snapped at Nat’s teasing, five minutes into the initial gawking and hawing the team had been doing at Thor and Tony in their speedos when they had all met up as a group in the hallway leading to outside. “I prefer not to have my hairs ripping out every time I gotta take that thing off.”

 

But Tony doesn’t just look good―he looks _pornographic._

 

Tony has one of those asses that Bucky has heard is called a “bubble butt,” where the meats of his cheeks are perfectly round and perky. Bucky imagines that they carry a pleasing, hefty weight to them―the kind that one can’t help but mindlessly _grope_ all night long―by the simple factor that they somehow appear to have a certain muscular firmness to them. And that ass? Looks damn _fine_ in a speedo.

 

This, of course, causes a Problem. In his pants. Bucky’s only saving grace is the shockingly cool water of the pool. He doesn’t think it’d do anyone any good if he managed to traumatize some hapless kids with a stiff in his trunks.

 

 _“Fuck,”_ he splutters as he comes back up to the surface for air. His gaze sweeps over the crowd of people and _―there._

 

Tony has taken claim of an entire round, plastic table, shaded under a large umbrella that alternates between garish red-and-green colours―he won’t be going near the pool, for obvious reasons. He’s procured a light button down from somewhere that clashes horribly with the bright yellow of his swimsuit and his cerulean sunglasses. Somehow, though, Tony manages to make the whole get-up fashionable in that way Bucky privately thinks only renowned people can.

 

One of the kids passing out refreshments and snacks bounds over to Tony’s table like an excited puppy. Bucky is not as good at reading lips from this distance, but he can guess she’s either fangirling or actually offering Tony something from the small cooler the kid is carrying.

 

Tony sets down his holotablet and says something around the lines of, _‘You got anything sweet?’_

 

The waistband of his trunks snaps back against his hip under the water, and Bucky has a small moment of reverting to his Training until he notices it’s just Nat being a dick.

 

She rises out of the water with what would be called a shit-eating grin on a different person. “Is that a gun in your pocket,” she drawls in Russian, “or are you just happy to see Stark?”

 

Bucky resolutely refuses to reply to that. He keeps his eyes focused on Tony’s shape instead, watching as the kid slides something over on the table at Tony’s prompting.

 

Natasha is too poised to roll her eyes, but Bucky can tell that’s exactly what she wants to do. _“Boys,”_ she scoffs under her breath and dives back into the water with the grace of a dolphin.

 

“Did you two just have a bitch fight?” Sam, the other dick, asks from behind him, wading closer through the water. His white trunks are floating up around his hips like buoys. “Because I’d warn you about getting on her bad side, man, but that’s just too much golden blackmail waiting to happen.”

 

Bucky pointedly looks down at Sam’s trunks. “You look like a floatie.”

 

Sam rolls his eyes. “And you look like a dumbass staring like the world’s creepiest pine at Stark,” he retorts, but he goes to press down on the floating cloth until it sinks below the water with bursts of bubbles. “And, hey, would you look at that―Tony’s got some company.”

 

And, sure enough, there Tony is―unknowingly attracting all of the damn world’s attention. The kid had apparently given Tony one of those fruity yogurt popsicles, and Tony is going to town on that damn thing, liking up the ice cream with a curling tongue and then suckling on it with hollowing cheeks. The worst part is that he’s obviously doing it absently, fiddling around as he is with his holotablet.

 

He looks like a damn dream come true―and he’s certainly caught the eye of an interested party.

 

Logan―the Wolverine, as they call him―settles himself in a metal chair he’s dragged over. He’s positioned himself openly to Tony, splaying his long legs open in a move that naturally draws the eye to, uh, certain places.

 

Tony barely pauses in what he’s doing, typing with one hand, and glances from under his eyelashes at the man. He tugs out his popsicle from between his glossy, sticky-looking lips in a dragged out suck. _‘May I help you, Mister Logan?’_ Tony asks.

 

He doesn’t think Logan replies anything―supersoldier or not, he can’t hear from this distance with all of the background noise. In lieu, he wraps a thick, burly hand around Tony’s wrist and leans forward in the small space between them to gorge down the popsicle.

 

Tony’s eyes go briefly wide with startlement. His ice cream is all gone. _‘What,’_ he says, wiggling the bereft wooden stick in the air; _‘did they run out of ice cream?’_  

 

It’s killing Bucky to only be able to see one half of the conversation, especially when, after whatever Logan replies that has Tony blinking, the man moves to take his leave.

 

Logan takes a step forward, two―then, _and then―_

 

He looms over Tony, supporting his heavy weight on one of the armrests of Tony’s chair and effectively trapping Tony to his place. Logan doesn’t waste a moment in allowing Tony to think about his predicament―he curls one of those meaty hands around Tony’s neck and uses the leverage to pull the smaller man up into a kiss.  

 

Tony’s body is stretched out into a taut line, caught like a helpless fish in Logan’s grasp. He has a hand held up in front of himself in an aborted gesture, but, in the next moment, his eyes flutter shut. He visibly lets himself be swept into the kiss as he begins moving his lips in counterpoint to Logan’s.

 

Logan tilts Tony’s head just right, plundering deeper. It gives Bucky the perfect angle to glimpse brief flashes of Tony’s wet, deft tongue as it moves sinuously into the kiss.

 

Next to him, Sam whistles lowly. “Damn.”

 

Logan’s hand drags down from the back of Tony’s neck and sweeps down his shoulder. He’s telegraphing his moves perfectly, yet Bucky is still as startled as Tony gets when Logan hauls Tony up from his seat until the two men are plastered chest to chest in the sweaty heat.  

 

But Logan, the bastard, doesn’t stop there; his hand keeps drifting lower until―

 

Tony shivers, and his mouth opens in what is quite clearly a moan.

 

Bucky’s Problem ratchets up with a vengeance. “Oh,” he breathes, _“god.”_

 

“Wow,” Sam says with an odd tone to his voice, “that’s one way to do it.”

 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut against the conflict warring in his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Deadpool!
> 
> P.S. I will be leaving soon for a month-long vacation, but I will be updating shortly thereafter. :)


	10. Wade Wilson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter definitely got away from me LOL
> 
> This is for those of you who specifically requested for some DeadIron! (I totally just made that up haha)
> 
> Also, guys, check out this super-duper cute drawing that [Tibbonacchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibbonacchi/pseuds/Tibbonacchi) made for chapter 6 (Scott's chapter), which you can see in this link [here](https://kumquats-arent-okay.tumblr.com/post/174706213612/drew-a-scene-from-a-hearts-battle-by-dreyrugr)!

Bucky wakes to the sound of music permeating through the walls of the Compound.

 

 _“...sold my soul,”_ the music drifts as Bucky creeps closer into the common hall. _“You brought it back to me.”_

 

He keeps to the shadows, padding silently on his socked feet, and tightens his grip on the hilt of his serrated knife. It’s nearly four in the fucking morning―the only ones crazy enough to be up at this hour are the Brains Division. Well, them and Nat; she likes to prowl at night on odd days. It scares the bejesus out of Clint, sometimes, when he awakens in the middle of the night to find her standing at the foot of his bed, sharpening her weapon of choice.

 

He comes into the upper common room, the one that overlooks the balconies on the west and east sides. Peering over the corner of the wall, he spots a shadow moving closer to the western balcony that’s filtering in the light from the full moon.

 

Bucky expels his breath in a quiet gush and reverses the blade back into its sheath.

 

He’d recognize that shadow anywhere.

 

 _“You put me high on a pedestal,”_ a woman’s voice croons in the faded tones of something too far away. _“So high that I could almost see eternity.”_

 

He hears Tony heave an exasperated sigh. “I’d ask how the hell you made it this far without alerting F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he says, with a raised voice that tells Bucky he’s trying to speak to someone down below, “but I’m more interested in what the hell you’re wearing.”

 

 _“I knew you’d recognize these curves!”_ a man’s muffled voice shouts back.

 

Bucky hears the soft rustle of Tony’s night robe. “Oh,” Tony says into the Compound’s air, rather mournfully, “fuck me.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Tony has known Deadpool before Deadpool even was Deadpool. It’s a confusing sentence that really boils down to one simple fact:

 

Tony and Wade Wilson used to date.

 

As in, “fuck-buddies” date, as Wilson had so helpfully put it.

 

Apparently, as Tony tried to explain over Wilson’s long-winded spiel that was very generously describing them and their BDSM-esque sexual activities, Tony had found Wilson half-dead in a grungy alley back in the early 2000s, and their relationship had expanded from there. A few years passed, and they’d lost contact somewhere around Afghanistan. Nonetheless, Wilson must have obviously left a particular kind of impression on Tony, considering that the latter had still been able to recognize Wilson in a black-and-red getup and with horribly mutated flesh.

 

Bucky tries not to scowl too harshly in Wilson’s direction. Jealousy burns somewhere low in his gut. “Why are you here?”

 

“Wait, wait,” Clint interrupts before Wilson can start, “Tony, you used to fuck Deadpool?” He doesn’t seem particularly impressed with that fact―in fact, he appears quite the opposite. _“Dude.”_

 

Tony rubs at his temple. “Unfortunately,” he says. There are bags under his eyes from his sleepless night. “I blame my youthful years and my questionable taste in personality.”

 

Rhodey snorts. “Tony, after Whitney Frost and Tiberius Stone, your tastes will _always_ be questionable.”

 

“Oh, god,” Scott says, “you dated the CEO of _VistaCorp?_ You seriously dated that asswipe?”

 

Natasha’s brow rises into a sharp arch. “Better question: You dated Madame Masque?”

 

Wilson moves to stand rather closely to Tony, their bodies plastered from hip to shoulder. He raises his hand to cover over where his mouth would be under his mask. “Tony,” he mock-gasps, “you have a supervillain kink? And here I thought I was special!”

 

Tony does a full body twitch. He squeezes his eyes shut; his eyebrow ticks. “Wade,” he says slowly―dangerously slowly―”if you don’t take your hand away from there in the next two seconds, I _swear_ I will grab you by the unmentionables and _twist.”_

 

Bucky nearly has a heart attack when he sees Wilson’s hand retract from what was quite clearly the _inside of Tony’s pants_ as the man takes a careful step backwards and to the side.

 

 _“I’ll see you soon, butt,”_ Wilson whispers rather loudly. _“You know I’m always thinking about you.”_

 

Tony’s hand slaps over his forehead. Bucky has to control himself from putting a bullet between Deadpool’s eyes. “Okay, first off, _stop_ talking to my ass, Wade,” Tony snaps. “Second off, can we focus up? This isn’t a free-for-all discussion about my dating life.”

 

Wilson clears his throat long and loudly. It’s like he’s begging for someone to strangle him, Bucky swears. “Permission to speak, Head Honcho?”

 

Bucky sees Tony physically ignoring certain aspects of Wilson’s sentence. “Explain away,” Tony says. Then, on careful reconsideration, _“Succinctly.”_

 

“Okay, so, hi,” Wilson waves a hand, “your friendly neighborhood Deadpool here. But you can call me Deadpool.” He pauses. “Or any variation there above.”

 

“Move on with it, Wilson,” Natasha snaps.

 

“Sheez, okay. They really _do_ have an endless supplies of scary, lethal women. Marvel, what have you _done?_ It’s the 21st century here; this isn’t how the world works― _ow!_ Okay, control your hands, Stark; I know you want a piece of this, but I never pegged you for cannibalism.” He rubs the spot on his arm where Tony had quite deliberately punched. “So, I’ve been running around with the X-Men, right―really, it’s like they don’t have enough characters in their line-up―and I ran into this one dude that wears a metal suit―kind of like Tony here…”

 

* * *

 

_20 minutes later..._

 

* * *

 

 

“...And I _swear_ I almost had him by the balls, but then Fangy Guy got all―”

 

 _“Okay!”_ Tony quickly interjects. “Okay, thank you, Wade, I think we got the gist of it. Everybody suit up; we’ve got a Dracula to hunt down.”

 

Wilson shivers with delight. “Aw, fuck, yeah! Hey, can I say it? Can I say the thing? I’ve always wanted a catchphrase―”

 

Bucky swears this day couldn’t get much longer.

 

* * *

 

All in all, the mission goes as well as it could be. They get the weïrd vampire guy and his cronies, meet some dickhead calling himself Doom, of all things, and have all of their collective asses saved by a last minute appearance of Thor. Deadpool even manages to be helpful, surprisingly, though he’d lost both his arms and a leg at some point and was hopping around on his literal last limb like a fucking idiot until Bucky decided to take enough pity on the guy and offer him some cover.

 

There are a few cuts and sprains amongst the group―nothing unexpected nor anything serious―and Wilson’s lost limbs were close to being fully grown by the time they finally started the long flight back to the Compound.

 

Tony and Wilson are sitting next to each other on the quinjet―they’ve been laughing and reminiscing between themselves for the last hour―while Bucky occupies his time cleaning the nozzle of his gun and pretending he hasn’t been listening in on their conversations.

 

In a lull between their tête-à-tête, Wilson scooches himself closer into Tony’s space, his suit squeaking like rubber on the seats. They’re so close that he’s practically sitting on Tony.

 

Tony eyes him from the corner of his eye. “And now you’re even closer, why?”

 

“Oh, nothing,” Wilson says in a lilt that wouldn’t convince even a fly. “I just wanted to see something…” He trails off, and Bucky immediately goes on high alert.

 

Oh, _fuck,_ Wilson had better _not_ be thinking of doing what Bucky thinks he’s going to do―

 

Wilson rolls up the bottom half of his mask, revealing a study of scarred flesh.

 

Tony must know where this is going, too. “Wade―”

 

 _“Shh,”_ Wilson hushes softly. “Don’t think about it.”

 

And he threads a hand through the stray locks at Tony’s nape, angling the latter’s body into the right position.

 

“Wade,” Tony says again, his breath coming into short pants as his chest begins to heave with anticipation. The man’s name almost sounds like a whisper.

 

Their lips are but an inch apart.

 

Bucky thinks that he should probably be looking away right about now.

 

“God,” Wilson groans lowly and studiously doesn’t close in the small space between them, “I’ve been waiting to this again for over ten goddamn years.”

 

Tony’s hand drifts up to grip at the wrist of the hand holding his head in place, yet he doesn’t dislodge Wilson’s hold. “You’re a fucking bastard,” he pants brokenly.

 

Bucky gulps in a dry breath as Tony’s lashes fan out over his cheeks. Wilson creeps a half inch nearer―he hovers there, evidently just content to inhale Tony’s scent from that distance.

 

 _“Wade,”_ Tony whispers again, his voice cracking on the vowels. The hand around Wilson’s wrist visibly tightens.

 

Bucky’s lips tingle with a phantom kiss that hasn’t even begun.

 

“I’ve got you, baby,” Wade mutters back.

 

And he finally closes the gap.

 

Tony moans shakily into the kiss and surges up with a dizzying fervour.

 

Wilson draws Tony in more tightly by the back of his neck and rocks up into the subsequent, lithe motion of Tony’s swaying body. _“Yeah,”_ he breathes between each movement of their kiss, “c’mon, Tony.”

 

Any moment now, Bucky will look away. Any. Moment.

 

Tony’s free hand yanks at the front of Wilson’s suit until they’re chest to chest, so near that Tony’s practically hovering over the other man’s lap. “Shut up,” Bucky hears him hiss as he pulls apart to angle his head to the other side, “and kiss me.”

 

Wilson willingly complies and encourages Tony to rub up even closer with a hand that is quite discourteously clenching on one of the globe’s of Tony’s ass. _“Fuck,”_ Wilson gasps wetly as they pull apart briefly to catch their breaths, “I almost forgot how good you are at this.”

 

Tony makes an absent, concurring sound that quickly gets lost into the heat of another kiss.

 

A seat away from him, Natasha makes a scoffing noise. “Are they seriously making out in the corner like teenagers right now?”

 

Bucky can only manage a strange, gurgling noise in the back of his throat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking for a song for this chapter, and, lo and behold, it appeared on the radio while I was away on vacation. Thank you, Anne Murray; I most definitely [needed you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5m6ViK5YQnc).
> 
> So, umm, was that okay?? I don't know why, but the more I see people read this, the more jittery I get about posting a new chapter. Ugh, okay, ignore my ridiculous insecurities, please.
> 
> Until next time! :D


	11. Loki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited FrostIron chapter! :D
> 
> This is for all of you who requested some Loki ❤

 

“I am here to offer my services to your... _group,”_ Loki says, with that proud tilt of the chin.

 

Tony stares at the god blankly. He turns wordlessly to Bucky.

 

Bucky can’t offer much in the way of guidance.

 

Almost synchronous, they turn back to stare at the god in question―and at the other, much broader one standing next to him.

 

Thor grins and pats roughly at Loki’s armoured shoulder, causing the latter to twitch in what is quite obviously annoyance. Thor doesn't divulge any words, but Bucky thinks even someone living under a rock would know what the man is hoping for.

 

Tony’s chest deflates with a heavily expelled breath. “Right,” he says, as if someone has pressed restart on his brain. His eyes flick between the brothers, watching both wearily. “Okay. I'll get Cap to call an Avengers meeting.”

 

Tony turns, and Bucky easily falls on his six’.

 

* * *

 

The room they round to is the main Avengers conference room, situated in the basement next to Tony’s lab. Aesthetically, there’s nothing much to it―unless you’re into minimalism, like Pepper Potts is―and the only thing that really serves to draw the eye is the massive, annular table that sits mathematically in the epicenter of the Compound.

 

The place is much like a book’s cover that has been left bereft but bounds the tales of the fantastical and the unimaginable come true―it’s as if Tony’s self has manifested and splurged itself every which way, though Bucky still maintains that that has nothing to do with why he spends a significant portion of his free time down here.

 

Take the table, for example. It’s precisely round―mostly due to the fact that Tony is an Arthurian at heart and no one quite has the courage to deny him the pleasure―and sturdy enough to withstand the fist of an enraged Hulk. Moreover, given that it was designed and built by the technological genius in their midst, the table is actually composed of billions upon billions of itty-bitty robots whose main programming is to both work as an interactive display using the latest of hard-light technology and to expand or decrease in size accordingly to accommodate the constantly revolving number of Avengers.

 

It is in this room, upon this table, where the world-saving magic takes place.

 

Hence, it is of no surprise when Bucky catches Loki’s eyes examining the room and its contents deftly.

 

The god drags a bone-white hand delicately over the glossy, midnight-black surface of the table, and his eyebrows lift appraisingly when it shifts like quicksilver. His emerald eyes penetrate across the room until they settle squarely upon Tony’s. “A room fit for a warrior’s council,” he compliments with a heavy heat to his words that Bucky can’t discern.

 

Tony shifts his stance and doesn’t yield to that stare. “As it is meant to be,” he returns deliberately lightly―Bucky knows Tony emotes this off-handed persona, sometimes, when someone or something gets under the man’s skin and the latter is determined not to show it. It’s as if he were rising to some unspoken challenge and meeting it with his arms raised.

 

And what a challenge it is, indeed, Bucky thinks to himself. Loki’s gaze is like a physical thing―cutting and omniscient all in one beat.  

 

This is a battle that Tony will not concede.

 

And, thus, at two ends of the table, Loki and Tony promptly have the world’s most pointed staring contest.

 

Just as Bucky is in the cusp of deciding to throw something at Loki’s forehead, Thor jerks Loki away by the elbow, effectively disrupting the building tension in the room.“Do not start this now, Loki,” Bucky hears Thor hiss lowly as the two men pass him by.

 

“I know not of what you speak,” Loki replies coolly, but he doesn’t fight Thor when he’s manhandled into taking a seat .

 

Thor leans in, a warning clear in the storms brewing over his façade. “Have care,” he cautions tightly. “Your being here is dependent on your behaviour, and I will not have you be cross with _heir-strenging mín.”_

 

_The what-who now?_

 

 _“Þín?’”_ Loki mocks, the foreign word thick like honey on his tongue, with a glint befalling his eyes that Bucky doesn’t particularly like. “He is not _yours_ to claim, brother.”

 

“Yes, well, I saw him first,” Thor smartly retorts.

 

“Hey!” Tony interjects, and all eyes swivel to him. “Yeah, I don’t know what you two are squabbling about, but can we can it until after we’re done with this impromptu meeting?”

 

Loki fixes himself properly in his seat―regally, Bucky is amused to think. “Of course. Shall we, then?”

 

* * *

 

For the most part, the meeting goes well, which is apparently more surprising on its self―Bucky, like more than half of the current Avengers, is missing the context that goes with what went down during the Battle of New York, Natasha is willing enough to inform. There was a moment of heated tension between Clint and Loki, but that got resolved within the first quarter of the meeting.

 

The Avengers vote in members unanimously―something that was decreed after the whole Sokovia Accords thing―and anyone one who has objections or reservations is meant to bring up the matter during the time of vote. After the votes are retaken, if it’s in the majority, but unresolvable objections still remain, then the person in question will be given a consultant status; otherwise, the Avengers gain a new member. The whole process is mostly to keep the finely honed team dynamics on an even balance while still allowing them to bring in necessary people into certain situations, like the thing with Thanos. Or like the thing with Deadpool and the vampire guy a few weeks ago.

 

Considering it’s, well, _Loki―_ and even someone like Bucky understands what _that_ means―the god in question got pulled over into an active consultant status.

 

Thor’s grin has never been brighter.

 

Nonetheless, Steve still insisted on having Loki participate in one of their training simulations in order to see how well Loki will integrate when he is called upon to battle.

 

It goes well.

 

Until it doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

It happens in an instant, between one blink and the next.

 

Wanda steps a tad too close behind Loki. Quickly noticing, Loki moves a step aside―and right into Stephen’s range.

 

Half the room turns to expel a shout of warning, just as Iron Man swoops down like a bullet ricocheting off a wall and Loki’s hands begin to glow with the green spur of his magic.

 

There’s a blinding flash of light followed by a sound hauntingly akin to the clap of thunder.

 

The concussive force of the blast throws even Thor off his feet.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, god,” is the first thing he hears. He immediately registers it as Tony, breathy and frantic. “Oh, god, no, _no―_ tell me this isn’t happening.”

 

Bucky sits up in a flash, his gun cocked before he fully registers the movement.

 

“If I may, it really isn’t all that horrible,” Loki responds.

 

Bucky would beg to differ.

 

Tony’s armour has decompressed back into the arc reactor, leaving him in that goddamn skin-tight flight suit that does _things_ to Bucky. His uppermost torso is half-levied away from Loki’s body―who is acting as Tony’s cushion against the floor―while the rest remains sprawled there, pressed tightly hip to hip with the god.

 

Bucky swallows thickly and wills himself not to pull the trigger. A bullet between Loki’s eyes will not resolve his jealousy, he has to tell himself.

 

Tony’s shoulders jerk repeatedly, as if he were trying to forcefully pull away. He goes nowhere.

 

Loki’s hand settles delicately on the small of Tony’s back. “If you would stop tugging,” he asks calmly. “There is nothing you can do to undo this at the moment, I’m afraid.”

 

“Then, _you_ undo it!” Tony struggles, but as far as he goes is but a foot away from Loki’s chest. He jerks again and then, seemingly spent, collapses back down―incidentally, his ear right over where Loki’s heart would be. Like this, with their bodies aligned from toe to toe, it’s easy to see the height differences between the two men―Tony’s head just about reaches Loki’s chin. “Why can’t I move _my legs,”_ Tony snarls into Asgardian armour.

 

“Uh,” Peter says intelligently.

 

* * *

 

The spell is not an intricate one, despite the fact that it was a messy combination of three different energy signatures, since, apparently, only Stephen had begun to form any intentions behinds his magic when the collision occurred.

 

The bad news? Loki and Tony were stuck like magnets to each other for the next few hours.

 

It turns out that Tony _can_ move his legs and, incidentally, the rest of his body. If he had Asgardian levels of strength, that is. Unfortunately, given that titbit only pertained to half of the party involved, for the duration of the spell, Tony has to endure Loki moving him around like a ragdoll with an ease that actually has Tony _blushing,_ something he hasn’t witnessed since Quill had propositioned Tony into a threesome all of that time ago.

 

They come to a compromise of sorts, after Tony’s blush was getting to ridiculous points and even him hiding his face amongst the layers of armour that Loki had on could do nothing to hide how red the tips of his ears had gotten.

 

“Step on my feet,” Loki says delicately, with an amused quirk of the lips that hasn’t left since Thor had stomped out of the room, “and I shall move for you.”

 

From his profile, Bucky can see Tony roll his eyes, though he has been keeping his gaze turned away from Loki’s sharp one after the last two times he had gotten flustered at their proximity. “Okay, I feel like we’ve gone over this a hundred times, but I _can’t move.”_

 

Easily, as if Tony didn’t weigh at all and there wasn’t a spell adding at least a thousand pounds of force, Loki splays his hand dangerously low on Tony’s back and lifts him up a scant few inches before dropping him back down onto his booted feet.

 

Tony’s head thunks against the side of Loki’s neck. Bucky can only imagine what his warm breath would feel like on his own skin, if Tony were that close to him―wonders if he’d be able to feel the butterfly-flutter of Tony’s ridiculously long lashes. “...I feel ridiculous,” Tony mutters into pale flesh.

 

Loki’s fingers spasm against the small of Tony’s back, but, when Bucky scrutinizes his façade for any other tells, he’s as blank as a sheet. “Be thankful that you aren’t as large as your Soldier over there, or we’d be constantly nose to nose.”

 

And now Bucky can’t stop seeing it. Loki and Tony so close their noses are touching, their astute gazes determined and unrelenting from one another’s, their lips but a breath apart―

 

Even now, when Tony is so much smaller, if Tony tilts his head just so, if Loki manhandles him just right―

 

Completely unrelatedly, Steve has to resort to restraining Bucky from getting physically between the two men and throwing the taller of the two across the room, spell or no spell.

 

If Loki pulls a Wolverine, he swears he’s going to put a bullet between the god’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

He does, in fact, pull a Wolverine.

 

And Loki’s just crafty enough to pull a Deadpool by the end of the night, too.

 

* * *

 

By the next morning, just before Loki slips out of Tony’s room, Bucky leaves a case of bullets painstakingly carved with Loki’s name into the tip of each and every one of them upon the god’s bedside stand.

 

And another dozen cases or so in his bathtub and balcony, for good measure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000+ points to whomever gets the translation of what Thor called Tony LOL
> 
> Until next time!


	12. Natasha (and Bruce)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! College got _way_ busier than expected, but I've finally managed to post this after...how many months has it been? Ugh, god. Talk about unintended hiatus.
> 
> Though this is one of the shorter ones, I hope this makes up a little bit for it! :D
> 
> Happy Holidays!

 

Bucky doesn’t mean to see.

 

He definitely doesn’t mean to stare.

 

It’s when he startles back into himself that he realizes he’s been standing there with glazed-over eyes at the foot of the lab for several minutes too long.

 

Just…watching.

 

And burning with seething, thunderous jealousy.

 

* * *

 

He’s not proud of his next moment.

 

He storms into Natasha’s quarters, knowing very well just that is enough to incite her wrath.

 

She doesn’t so much as twitch from where she’s patiently flipping through a novel, curled up under a hand-knitted throw.

 

An elegant brow rises in query, yet her eyes dance with amusement.

 

“You know,” he accuses.

 

“I’m not an idiot, Яша,” she replies in Russian, the tongue he had been unknowingly speaking. “Nor am I blind.”

 

Anguish pulls his face tightly. “Is this what you were warning me about? You and―and―” He can’t say his name, that _man_ who got to touch Tony like that. “But you’re in love with―” If he says his name, he thinks he might try to crush his throat, and then the whole of the Avengers and the surrounding cities would have another crisis on their hands. “I know you and... _him_ are together, but you and Tony, I thought―”

 

“No,” she says with dragging vowels. “Tony and I aren’t together.” She makes a show of shuddering. “God knows that ship would crash and burn faster and hotter than a meteorite.”

 

Bucky stands there, feeling his whole world crumbling around him.

 

“Boys,” Nat mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes, but she pats the empty space next to her on the couch.

 

Feeling like a ghost adrift, he goes as beckoned and settles next to her. But he can’t bear to face her, so he lets his hair shroud his eyes as he stares down with determination at his boots on Nat’s posh carpet.

 

“Яша,” she asks, her tone gentling, “what exactly did you see?”

 

The memories come flooding back like a broken dam. “I―” He breathes in shakily. He feels like he might shatter apart. “I saw them. Tony and…” He still can’t say it.

 

“Tony and Bruce,” Nat finishes.

 

Bucky can’t speak through the lump in his throat.

 

Nat’s weight shifts back, and Bucky hears her heavy exhale as she settles more comfortably against the arm of the couch. “Were they sucking face?”

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, though it does nothing against the vivid images. He shakes his head.

 

Nat’s breath gets sort of―caught in her throat. High and hitched, like a― _”Fuck,”_ she breathes, almost subsonic.

 

Bucky’s cheeks colour; he _definitely_ knows he wasn’t supposed to hear that.

 

“If you saw them,” Nat says, “playing _doctor”_ ―and, holy mother of god, how the _hell_ does she make that sound so suggestive―“then I can assure you that Bruce wasn’t cheating on me. Nor is Tony on anyone else, for that matter. We have a deal.”

 

Confusion irks at him. “A deal?” he asks, his tone disbelievingly flat. The confusion is sharp enough to cut through the swirling darkness tumbling through his chest. He turns to look at her.

 

Nat’s smile is wickedly sharp. “Bruce has a certain...kink, I guess is the appropriate term. It allows him to release tension that his Condition, as it is, wouldn’t let him otherwise. But his thing doesn’t exactly coincide with―” She gestures down at herself. “So, Tony volunteered his services.”

 

Bucky―is not getting any of this. “What?”

 

Nat cocks her eyebrow at him. “Really? How long have you been around, Winter Soldier?” She leans in then, close enough for Bucky to count her lashes. “My _lover,”_ she makes a point of stressing, “and our mutual friend occasionally play doctor, Яша.” Her tongue sweeps over her lip as she encroaches closer still. “And _I?_ I get to relive it for my own pleasure on my flat-screen.”  Her fingers dance up his chest to every staccato of her words. “As. Many. Times. As. I. _Want.”_

 

Bucky gulps, suddenly unable to breathe.

 

Nat’s expression is clearly amused as she draws away. She pats him on the cheek, consolingly, as she gets up to leave. “It’s simple math, Яша.”

 

He sits there, struck, and watches Nat strut her way to the elevator.

 

He doesn’t know if this sudden revelation is somehow better or worse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you are wondering, I most definitely am writing what Bucky witnessed between Tony and Bruce; just watch out for it in the series! (I will be making a link here once I have it posted so it's easier to get to it.)


	13. Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word count for this chapter... _may_ have gotten away from me LOL. 
> 
> I recently re-read Fraction's _Hawkeye_. It was the perfect inspiration and the breath of fresh air I didn't know I needed - it truly reminded me why Clint has been my favourite Human Disaster for so long (and also how Ceiling Vent Clint Barton became a tag LOL). For those of you unfamiliar with Fraction's _Hawkeye_ \- and, seriously, if you haven't read it, you really, really should; it's _so good_ \- what you need to know is that while Clint is living in his apartment in Brooklyn (616 verse here), he rescues a pizza dog who was thrown into incoming traffic by some assholes. His name is Lucky, and he is the most adorable dog _ever_ and deserves all of the love in the world. Also, Clint has an apprentice/best friend/common sense named Kate Bishop (A.K.A. the other Hawkeye), and she is so, so awesome.
> 
> Um, so. I've kind of, sort of...thrown together MCU!Clint and 616!Clint and created this fic's Clint LOL.
> 
> This is for those of you who requested Clint! :D

Bucky doesn’t mean to avoid Tony after the Incident, but being an Avenger with a very specific skill set means that he gets called out on missions more often than not.

 

Nat and he are sent undercover to help dismantle an international mob from the inside out. They’re a group that Hydra―and, consequently, the Winter Soldier―has been running business with for a long-assed time, though they only started to become a bleep in the Avengers’ radar when the Hell’s Kitchen Devil had swooped in to save Peter when the kid had gotten caught in too deep with some of the Hand’s members.

 

That’s how they meet the Defenders. Two days later, Tony happens, and the Avengers became four more members stronger.

 

It’s also how they learn that, aside from the Hand, there is some murky business going on in the boroughs. Those who weren’t already on other missions or off-planet got split into teams: Peter, Steve, and Rhodey would patrol the Queens area, the Defenders-now-Avengers would continue on doing their thing with some check-ins, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. would continue to monitor the Manhattan area through CCTV with the help of Sam and Scott.

 

Which left Tony, Nat, Clint, and himself.

 

He had two options: investigate some weïrd reports passing around the Bedford-Stuyvesant area of Brooklyn with Clint or do some deep infiltration into one of the local gangs with Nat.

 

Maybe he’s a jealous prick, the Incident still wracking him. Maybe he fell for Nat’s little “for old time’s sake” speech. Whatever the case, Tony goes with Clint, while he goes with Nat.

 

It’s the longest three weeks of his life.

 

* * *

 

The air is crisp, cool enough to bite at the exposed skin of his face.

 

The whole compound is gleaming white under a few feet of freshly fallen snow, undisturbed still in the early hours. There’s barely a breeze; no sign of life bustling about.

 

It feels like coming home.

 

He has a family here. Friends. Comrades. People for whom he’d draw his last breath and who he knows, with an irrevocable belief, would do the same for him.

 

Most of all, he thinks to himself with a kindling warmth, he has Tony.

 

And, for the last near-month’s time, he’s missed the man with an aching intensity.

 

Steve’s resting bitch face―Sam’s words, not his―lights up with a warm smile as Bucky steps through the threshold leading into the common floor.  He’s at the stove, stirring what smells like a broth-based soup, but he sets the utensil to the side to greet Bucky with a warm hug. “Missed you ‘round, Buck,” Steve says, clapping at his shoulder as he draws away. “Nat here?”

 

Bucky smiles back. “Yeah, she’s getting herself settled. Should be down in a few.” He lets his gaze rove over the kitchen area and towards the living room. The TV is on, though it’s muted with subtitles that Bucky is fairly certain are in Thai.

 

Wanda is easy to spot, sprawled on one of the loveseats perpendicular to the screen. She has a book hovering mid-air, suspended in wisps of red, whose pages she flicks through with the laziest nudge of a finger every so often. Vision is under her, supporting her head with his lap, as he cards careful fingers through the tresses of her hair.

 

Across from the lovebirds is, strangely enough, Clint, who should have been spending the holidays with his wife and kids. There’s an IV stand by his head and a large pile of blankets bundled over him. It’s with a second of thought that this scene sinks as unsurprising―after all, it’s _Clint,_ one of the most accident-prone members on the team.

 

But Clint’s bundle of blankets is too lumpy, too non-blanket shaped. There’s another person under there.

 

With a raised brow, he turns to look back at Steve, cocking his head in Clint’s general direction.

 

Steve’s smile flickers, the bitch face making a come back. “He’s over there,” he says, cryptically. “On the couch with Clint.” He turns back to his soup, stirring the pot with agitated movements.

 

The inklings of worry start to nag at his cheery mood. Maybe their resident Human Disaster is worse off than he looks. He bounds lightly over to Clint, respectful of the quiet that has obviously been carefully crafted by its occupants. “Hey,” he says lowly. “You all right?”

 

Despite what looks like some fairly deep bruising on various parts of the man’s body―and, strangely, a distinct lack of an IV line hooked to him―there’s energy in Clint’s signed, _See finally back. Where’s Spider?_ He gestures at his ear. _Sorry, hearing aids damaged; didn’t hear what you said._

 

ASL isn’t within Bucky’s long repertoire of languages―at least, not enough to sign back as fluidly as Clint or Tony―but he’s picked up enough to understand the gist of what Clint’s saying and reply back with a messy, _Spider upstairs. No,_ he waves vaguely at his own ear and, lacking the word, spells out slowly, _R-E-P-L-A-C-E-M-E-N-T._

 

 _No,_ Clint’s expression is chagrined, _got F on mission. Last pair, forgot to tell T._

 

_F?_

 

 _Fucked,_ Clint supplies with a shit-eating grin. _Sorry, was being polite for the kids. And, by kids, mean C-A-P._

 

Bucky snorts. _Well, C-A-P not looking now._

 

 _He has eyes on back of head, swear to fuck,_ Clint signs back. The bundle over most of his body rustles, squirming sightly, and Clint goes stock-still until what is now quite clearly a person resettles. _F, okay, that was too F close. Do N-O-T want this―_ he points down to the pile of blankets _―waking up again._

 

Bucky has no delicate way to say this. _Who―_ he eyes the bundle pointedly _―and where T? Haven’t seen. And, hey, you all right? You’re all―_ Well, there’s no delicate way to put it. _Look like ground shit._

 

For some reason, his question incites panic. Clint’s eyes have gone round as his movements take up a jerkiness to them. _Please don’t kill me._

 

Bucky’s brows furrow. _Why would I kill you? And, seriously, where’s T? Thought he’d be up here with everyone else._ Tony is probably the most unsubtle affection-seeker on the team, he thinks fondly to himself.

 

Clint’s head thumps back against the pillow supporting his weight, a weirdly pitched groan rumbling from his chest. A second later, right as Bucky is debating asking either Vision or Wanda for help, the archer straightens back up and, delicately, pulls a corner of the blankets aside.

 

His heart sinks.

 

“Jesus,” he breathes, startled. If he thought Clint looked like ground shit that got stampeded several times over for good measure, Tony somehow manages to look _worse._ He looks like―like― _What the hell happened?_ he asks, when he really means to demand, _Who the fuck do I need to start ripping to shreds?_

 

Clint waves his hands placatingly. _Okay, okay, look, before you start freaking out, he’s going to be okay. All right? T will be fine._

 

Bucky can see, now, the way Tony is being gently rocked with each of Clint’s motions. In any other circumstance―and from personal experience―he knows Tony would be grumbling about all of the movements and poking at Bucky’s _―Clint’s―_ ribs with annoyed fingers. Tony’s lack of response now sends his anxiety ratcheting higher.

 

In what world is this _fine?_

 

His distress must be obvious on his face. _Winter?_ Clint nudges at his leg. _Hey, you all right?_

 

Something unpleasant within him―something he correlates with what Hydra made him into for so long―wants murder someone, preferably the S.O.B. who thought it’d be swell to come within ten feet of Tony’s presence. He goes for a simple, _Fuck, no,_ instead. Then, after a moment’s deliberation where he can’t stop staring at Tony, at the state the man is in, he asks, _Why does T look like P-N-E-U-M―_

 

 _Pneumonia?_ Clint interrupts. His expression twists with guilt. _Um. Because he caught it?_

 

There's an oppression in his lungs. He can see in his peripheral vision the wisps of snow falling―and it no longer feels like home. He's in a Siberian bunker instead, feeling the spread of the freeze crawling through his veins. _That's not possible._ He knows it isn't. He personally went with Tony to his appointment with Doctor Cho to prevent precisely this.

 

He remembers Tony’s sardonic smile as he said, _“My lungs are too fucked up for even the flu. There’s, uh, a high probability I’d die if I ever caught something stronger.”_

 

And now it echoes through his mind, _I’d die I’d die I’d die,_ and wonders how fast he’d need to be stab himself through the heart before any of them are fast enough to stop him.

 

There is no world where he’d survive Tony dying.

 

It isn't Clint staring back at him now. His bright eyes are flint-sharp, tracking every last twitch of his body, every inhale and exhale. _Winter, I need you to breathe,_ Clint says, his gestures as deliberately calm and as steady Bucky imagines his voice would be. _He's fine. T’s fine. We're keeping the infection in check. Bit of fever, but not dangerous._ He falls silent then, contemplative. _You want to switch?_

 

Switch? The confusion is enough to start breaking through the frost. _What?_

 

He motions down at himself―or, well, at Tony. _Want to hold T instead? It's the only way he's been sleeping._

 

His brain’s immediate response is, _Please, yes, gimme,_ but he recalls with a stab of fear what Clint had implied just a moment ago―Tony not sleeping was a recipe for disaster. “No,” he says, out loud, before he remembers himself, and continues on, _No, let him sleep. We can switch after, if he wants, when he wakes._ He repeats the words back to himself in his head, and something in him begins to settle. _When_ Tony wakes, no if about it.

 

Clint steadily stares up at him, though this time it’s no longer Hawkeye. _You wanna take a seat? I’m gonna get a crick in the neck staring up at your building._

 

Bucky can’t help a smile at that. _My building?_

 

 _Tall...person thing,_ Clint rolls his eyes. _You get the gist._

 

And this is where hanging out with Natasha for a few long weeks comes in handy: he gets to practice the Unimpressed Eyebrow―without being kicked in the balls.

 

“Ugh,” Clint groans. _I don’t need two of you._ He jerks at Bucky’s pants. _Sit, sit, sit._

 

He slaps away at Clint’s fingers. _Okay, okay,_ “Fuck, I’m going,” he grumbles half-heartedly. He plops down in front of the couch, stretching out his legs until the tips of his booted feet are crammed under the small space below the couch. Resting back against the coffee table like this isn’t the most comfortable―the line of the reinforced glass is jabbing in an uncomfortably straight line across his shoulders―but he has a clear line of sight of Tony like this, can keep watch with the excuse that he’s really talking to Clint. _Happy?_

 

 _Ecstatic,_ Clint replies, the sarcasm evident in his unspoken words. _You know what I’m really ecstatic about, though? Writing the report for all the shit that went down in B-R-O-O-K-L-Y-N._

 

Bucky is itching for details. He has a personal Shit List that he’s filling out, and every last person that decided to lay a finger on Tony was on it. He’s already even thought about organizing the scumbags in order of increasing pain. _Yeah? Wasn’t that bad on our side; thought it’d be worse. Turns out it was just some idiots trying to swindle some money out of people who couldn’t afford it._

 

One of Clint’s brows―the one unriddled by a bruised, jagged cut―rises in interest. _Sounds like your dirtbags might have something to do with our dirtbags. Those shits threw a dog into incoming traffic, and_ this _one―_ His movements grow agitated _―this one thought it was a F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C idea to go after the poor thing, nearly got himself killed, I swear to fuck. Ended up with a dog with a broken leg and missing an eye, an idiot with cracked ribs, and a sidekick._

 

There was a moment of panic, but the last part put a complete derail to it. _A what?_

 

 _Sidekick?_ Clint offers. _S-I-D―_

 

 _No, I know what you said,_ he interrupts and makes a gesture that he hopes summarizes his confusion.

 

 _Oh!_ Clint perks up, a sort of giddiness to him. _Right. K-A-T-E B-I-S-H-O-P, remember that name. Been calling herself Hawk-Eye and keeping watch over the people of the building we were staying at. Definitely should bring her in, could start up a kiddy A-V-E-N-G-E-R-S group._

 

“The Young Avengers?” Bucky says aloud, to which Clint grins. _Could include that C-H-I-C-A-G-O girl and the Little Spider._

 

Clint snorts a laughter that jostles Tony, though the latter doesn’t do much other than furrow his brows. _That’s what T said._ Something about that sobers Clint up. He glides his fingers through the tangled waves of Tony’s hair delicately, fanning them out over Clint’s threadbare shirt like a dark halo. _Son of a bitch is too damn kind for his own good,_ he at last says just as the edge of melancholy was starting to worry Bucky.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees quietly to himself, watching the steady rise and fall of Tony’s chest.

 

Tony’s heart would be the death of him.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint, Tony, Lucky, and Kate's adventures in Brooklyn will be found here, once I finally post the fic. It will also be found as part of this series :)
> 
> And, yay! Bucky is finally starting to drift away from the in-lust to the in-love side of things - more feels await!
> 
> Next chapter is an almost-direct continuation of this chapter, starring Stephen Strange, as per popular re-request :D
> 
> (For anyone wondering, I am definitely still taking requests!)

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be done on a daily basis (me hopes!). Of course, each chapter will hold the focus of a specific pairing.
> 
> Can you guess who is the true pairing? :D
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://that616marvel.tumblr.com)!


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